


Hay Fever

by ZeNSin



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeNSin/pseuds/ZeNSin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flowey wants to show Papyrus something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hay Fever

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe nobody's written a Papyrus/Flowey sex pollen fic before.

Flowey’s smiling like he’s up to no good.

It’s an expression Papyrus is very familiar with— it’s the one Flowey wears when he suggest stealing all of Sans’ hoodies, when he asks Papyrus if he’s done _any dirty deeds?_

“WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING?” he asks, puts both hands on his hips— Flowey giggles up at him, swaying from side to side.

“Aw, Papyrus~! I’m not up to anything _bad_!”

Papyrus looks down at him in disbelief, though Flowey just laughs.

“I promise! In fact~” his smile rips wider. “Why don’t I show you?”

Papyrus frowns. “SHOW ME?”

Flowey nods, petals bobbing with the motion. “Yep!”

Papyrus hesitates— Sans has promised he’d be home today, and Papyrus wanted to make him a nice, home-cooked meal. But...

“HOW FAR IS IT?”

Flowey giggles. “Not far at all! In fact, it’s _ri~ght_ here in Snowdin!”

Well then, it probably won’t take any time at all— Flowey will just show him, super quickly, and he will see if it is anything dangerous, and if not, he can go right on home.

“IT WON’T TAKE LONG?” Papyrus asks, just to be sure.

“It won’t even take a jiffy!”

“OKAY THEN,” Papyrus says, and smiles down at Flowey. “SHOW ME!”

Flowey grins, pops back underground, and shows up a few feet away, swaying. “Follow me!” he says, and pops back down.

Papyrus trudges through the snow, following after the flower— Flowey pops up from time to time, a bright smear of red and yellow against the snow, and then disappears again.

It doesn’t bother Papyrus. It’s how Flowey usually travels, and he’s long since grown accustomed to his friend’s habits.

It takes barely two minutes, before Flowey declares that they’re here.

_Here_ turns out be a little clearing, well-hidden by bushes and trees; there’s piles of snow everywhere, and an outcropping of rocks that make out a little shelter.

Papyrus steps into the clearing; twists as he looks around. “WOWIE FLOWEY, THIS IS A REALLY NICE SPOT! THOUGH—” He turns back to Flowey. “WHAT IT IS FOR?”

Flowey isn’t there.

“Well~” he says, right beside Papyrus, and there’s a vine sliding up his leg, curling around it. “For you, silly!”

Papyrus doesn’t even have time to turn— he’s jerked back, leg giving out beneath him, and he crashes to the ground. Snow kicks up around him as vines wrap around his arms, his legs.

“FL-FLOWEY?”

He’s being spread out, held down. Flowey pops up above him, grinning down at him.

It’s his _up to no good_ smile.

“Wowie, Papyrus! I can’t believe how naïve you are! I mean—” he tilts on his stem, and the vines creep higher; curl in under his shirt, slide into his ribcage.

Papyrus yelps.

“—Are you _really_ surprised?”

He wriggles in the snow, jerking his arms and legs around— but the vines don’t budge, don’t even loosen.

Papyrus swallows. “FLOW-FLOWEY, WHY… WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Flowey blinks down at him. He’s still grinning. “Why, isn’t it obvious?”

Vines poke up from the ground, twining up and waving through the air around Flowey— most of them are thin, long, and those are the ones Flowey uses for picking up things or moving them around. But the others are thicker, covered with bumps and nubs. Looking at them, an odd feeling sits in Papyrus’ soul.

And then, there is the last one— it slithers up from behind Flowey, and more than a vine it is a stem. A flower sits on its end, petals closed tight.

“I want to play with you.”

Papyrus dry-swallows.

“I— I WOULDN’T MIND PLAYING WITH YOU, FLOWEY!” he tries, wriggling a bit— vines brush over his ribs, his spine, and it tickles. “BUT, BUT I CAN’T REALLY _PLAY_ IF I’M ALL, UH, WRAPPED UP?”

He laughs, nervously.

Flowey chuckles. “Aw, Papyrus, you got it all wrong! This _is_ the game!”

Papyrus stares, sockets wide. “I— I DON’T THINK I LIKE THIS GAME, THEN!”

“Well, that’s just too bad! Because _I_ rather like this game,” Flowey bends down, leaning in. “You look so nice all tied up~”

They’re nothing but inches away. Something in Flowey’s face makes Papyrus uncomfortable— it makes his soul beat a frantic tattoo against his ribs.

“FLOWEY—” he’s not even sure what he could possibly say to convince Flowey to stop this. “ _PLEASE_ —”

Flowey giggles and leans back away. “Aw, Papyrus, you’re so cute when you beg! Though, rather soon, you’ll be begging for something else entirely!”

He laughs again, eyes squinting close.

“But, first! Let’s get rid of those clothes of yours!”

_—What?_

Papyrus’ eyes go wide, wider, and his soul leaps up into his mouth. “FLOWEY—”

Two vines snake out, slide over his shirt— there’s the sound of fabric ripping, tearing, and Papyrus cranes his head, stares blankly at his now torn uniform top.

“WHA—”

Something - a vine -  touches his pelvis, brushes down to his shorts— Papyrus bucks, struggles, and his soul is hammering.

“PLEASE, FLOWEY, DON’T—!”

It tears with a loud, loud sound.

Papyrus’ sockets sting, suddenly, and he bites his teeth together— something pushes at the back of his throat; a thick feeling.

He tries to ignore it.

He’s naked, now, except for his scarf, his boots, and his gloves.

“FLO-FLOWEY… PLEASE DON’T…” he shudders in a breath. “DON’T RUIN MY SCARF… PLEASE?”

Flowey tilts his head.

“You really like that thing, huh?” he asks, voice blazé, and Papyrus can’t do anything but nod.

“Hmmm… Well, fine! But—” he leans back in. “Only if you _promise_ to stop struggling! It’s really annoying, you know!”

Papyrus swallows. His sockets sting.

“O-OKAY. I PROMISE.”

Flowey grins happily. “Okay then, it’s a deal!”

Vines reach down, gently unwrap the scarf from his neck. Flowey puts it aside carefully, placing it in a snowdrift few feet away.

That done, Flowey turns back to Papyrus. His smile is a black cut in his face. “Now then… The fun can _really begin_.”

Flowey sways closer, and vines creep up along Papyrus’ legs— up around his femurs, ghosting across the bone. The vines inside his ribcage _spread_ , anchor themselves— there’s a faint, prickling feeling, and something _soft_ brushing along the inside of his ribcage.

It— feels weird.

“Though… I don’t even know where to start!” Flowey dips his head down, a mere breath away from Papyrus’ face. “There’s _so many things_ I want to do to you, I’m not sure where to begin!”

Papyrus swallows. His head thrums— he can’t look Flowey in the face.

“You know… I think I know what to start off with. I mean, an unwilling partner isn’t any fun!”

Willing…? Papyrus is pretty sure there’s nothing Flowey could do, to make him _willing_.

It must show on his face, because Flowey giggles.

“See, that’s what _this_ —” the stem-like vine sways into view, and the flower is blooming, petals opening slowly. “—is for!”

Papyrus can’t help but lean away— he stares up at the flower, at the slowly opening bud. “WHAT… WHAT DOES IT DO?”

“We _~ll_ ,” Flowey says, drawing out the word. His grin is a cheeky one. “It… oh, I don’t think I could properly explain it!” he snickers.

“But, you’ll understand.”

The petals unfold. There’s a wash of sweetness. Papyrus blinks, shakes his head.

It— it sticks to his nasal cavity, sickly sweet, and—

He coughs.

His chest rises, falls— it feels choking, sticky, and he coughs again, again.

Flowey hums above him.

His vision is growing fuzzy, spotty— his head is heavy, his soul is heavier. He pants for air.

“WHAT…?”

A vine brushes across his hip.

“ _AH—_ ” he tosses his head back, arches up— it feels like fire, burning across his bones, except oh, _oh_.

“Aah,” Flowey sighs, and another vine brushes over Papyrus’ iliac crest, and _oh god—_ “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Papyrus groans, presses his head back— his soul thrums, his whole body thrums. He slides a tongue over the roof of his mouth, and it _burns_.

“A-AAH.. WHAT…”

He can’t think— his body is shaking, and magic is swirling, pulsing, and god, he needs—

“Doesn’t it feel good?” Flowey asks, voice a hush, and vines rub over his bones; over his pelvis, over the arches of his iliac, and he shakes, pants.

“I— FLOWEY—” his voice fails him, and he moans, bucks. “GOD, _GOD_ , FLOWEY—”

“Wowie Papyrus,” Flowey says, and two vines gently caress the insides of his femurs. “You sure sound needy, don’t you!”

Papyrus whines. He can’t think, can’t— he jerks helplessly upward, and he can _feel_ his magic swirling between his legs, forming, blossoming.

He needs—

“Oooh, what’s _this_?”

A vine gently brushes over his opening, a mere feather-light touch, and _god, oh god_ , Papyrus can’t do anything but thrust downwards, a loud whine slipping from him.

“PLEASE, PLEASE, FLOWEY, _PLEASE—_ ”

Flowey laughs. It’s a weird sound, heavy, fuzzy, and Papyrus whines again. “Please _what_ , Papyrus? You want me to—” a touch; slipping over his folds, and he cries, shudders. “—touch you?”

“YES, PLEASE, PLEASE FLOWEY, _PLEASE—_ ” he wriggles, twists, and he’s burning. “TOUCH ME, _PLEASE_.”

Flowey giggles. “Well then, since you’re asking _so nicely_!”

The vines grips his femurs tightly, presses his legs down— they’re pushed farther apart, quick, rough movements, and Papyrus doesn’t care, can’t, he needs _something_ , he needs—

“A-Aa _ah_.”

A vine, a single one, presses inside him.

It slips in so easy, and he jerks down on it— feels it slide inside him, touching his walls, and _god_ —

He moans, pants; he tightens around it, and thrusts down on it, wanting more, _needing_ more.

“PLEASE—” he groans, and Flowey’s laugh is rough.

Another vine; another— two more, curling inside him, and he grinds, jerking downwards in a helpless bid to have _more_.

“Wow—” Flowey’s voice is breathy. “You’re— _hngh_ — so wet, Papyrus…”

He is— he’s dripping, slick with want and need.

“PLEASE—” he gasps. “MORE, I NEED—”

His soul is tight.

“What—?” Flowey asks, and the vines slide deeper, _deeper_ , and he arches his back. “What do you need, Papyrus?”

—More.

He needs more.

“I—” his voice gives, and stars blink in his vision, and he can’t do anything but gasp breathlessly.

The vines inside his ribcage move.

“T-T-TOUCH,” he manages, voices barely working, and every flick of the vines inside him sends him reeling.

The vines inside his ribcage rub over the bones there, sliding, fondling, and before he can even focus on it, the vines inside him jerk apart— his walls are pushed, spread, and he chokes, because it hurts, but it’s _wonderful_ , and he’s throbbing.

“Do you,” Flowey starts, slowly. “want me inside you?”

Something gently touches his opening, and it’s _big_ , warm, and he whines.

He wants it. Oh god, he wants it so bad.

“Y-YES,” he breathes.

There’s no warning.

One moment he is empty, wanting, wet with desire, and the next he’s _full_.

His mind blanks.

He thinks he is making some kind of noise, but he can’t hear it— he can’t think, can’t—

All he can feel is Flowey inside him, pulsing, warm, every little nub brushing against his wall, every part of him that’s _touched_.

He crashes back to reality, and he’s screaming, wailing, and Flowey is thrusting inside him, moaning, and it feels so good, it feels amazing, and he wants more, he _needs_ more—

Papyrus jerks downwards as best as he can, tries to meet each thrust— he pants, moans, because every brush is fire, molten pleasure burning in his core, and he cannot think. Can only toss his head and moan and moan.

Flowey groans, pants, and jerks inside him— it’s warm, so warm, and _oh, ooh_ —

“NNGH—” he arches, shakes. “OH GOD, FLOWEY—”

Flowey is opening inside him, spreading, getting bigger and bigger, and Papyrus is _so full_ , filled to the brim and he can’t take it, can’t—

A vine curls around his soul, squeezes, and that’s it.

Pleasure roars through him, steals his breath, his mind, and he shudders, shakes, vision going white.

Flowey shakes too; there’s a loud drawn out sound then wetness seeping inside him, thick and sticky. Papyrus presses the back of his skull to the snow, jerks helplessly.

He burns, still.

“A-AH,” he pants, ribs heaving. “FL-FLOWEY…”

He cranes his neck, tries to look at Flowey— he can’t, can’t even move, and he feels sluggish, heavy.

“I—”

He doesn’t know.

He whines, grinds down, and Flowey makes a sound at that— the vines inside him stir, and the one around his soul rubs over it.

Papyrus tosses his head back.

“FLOW-FLOWEY…”

He’s wet, pulsing, and his soul throbs, and he can’t _think_.

The throbbing is too much, too loud, and he thrusts down, whines at the feeling of nubs brushing over his walls.

“PL-PLEASE!”

Flowey doesn’t say anything; the vines around his soul moves, rubs, strokes, and it’s nothing like the pleasure from before, it’s not being filled and pushed open, but oh, Papyrus wants it anyway.

“PLEASE!” he cries, and the vines tighten— inside him, Flowey starts to move again.

Rough thrusts, fast and hard, and it hurts, it does, but he can’t feel it over the vines against his soul, the burn in his core.

“Ugh—!” Flowey pants. “—You’re so— thirsty, aren’t you?”

Papyrus moans, arches; each thrust is heaven, each squeeze around his soul is heaven. He’s floating, burning, and he wants so bad.

And then, with no warning whatsoever, Flowey pulls out.

Papyrus gasps, jerks at nothing, and he’s _empty_ , and no, no, come back, _please_ —

The vines around his soul loosens, slides away— Papyrus wriggles.

“FL-FLOWEY, NO, PLEASE, I—” he cries, ribs heaving, and he’s dripping still, throbbing and thrumming, and god, he’s going to die.

“Aaah—” Flowey hums, and there’s a sound; something being stroked, slick against slick, and Flowey grunts, moans.

“You’re so delicious, Papyrus. So wet, so— hng—”

Harsh panting, loud and heavy, and Papyrus wriggles, thrusts blindly, because he _needs something_ , he needs the touch, the— the contact.

The vines around his legs and arms are all he has, and they’re dull burns, static and unmoving, and he _needs more_.

“FLOWEY—” he cries. “FLOWEY, PLEASE—”

Flowey’s voice hitches, pants and moans dragging into an exhale of air, soft and satisfied, and Papyrus closes his eyes, pants.

“FLOWEY—!”

No reaction— just soft breaths, the faint rustling of vine over vine, and then, after what must have been centuries, Flowey does move.

“Wowie Papyrus, you sure are greedy, aren’t you?”

Papyrus wriggles, bucks, and everything is a wash of warmth; his bones, his soul, between his legs.

He wants to cry.

“You really want me to fuck you, don’t you? But—” Flowey giggles. “I think I’ll leave you here! All needy and wet _just for me_.”

A vine flickers against his folds, and he cries, arches, because it’s like lightning, burning through him.

“Bye-bye Papyrus!”

 

**~♥~**

 

Papyrus isn’t answering his phone.

Sans paces restlessly, worry tight against his ribs, and he knows, _knows_ , that something is wrong.

Papyrus always answers his phone— he’s basically glued to it, never going anywhere without it. He’s even gone as far as to take it into the shower with him.

Sans turns sharply.

He doesn’t know what could be wrong.  
He can’t think of _anything_ that would prevent Papyrus from picking up his phone. Except—

The worry blooms into fear, panic, and Sans’ breath stops, sticks into the gaps between his vertebrae.

Oh god—

Wrenching himself away, Sans shortcuts himself directly to Papyrus’ station.

He’s not surprised to find it empty, and beside a quick scan, he quickly passes it by.

He doesn’t bother with the path.

Sans goes directly towards the forest, winding his way through the trees— snow crunches beneath his feet, and his breath curls into wispsy clouds.

He picks up the pace.

Besides the sound of snow and his breath, the forest is quiet. Silent. It makes Sans’ soul beat harder, makes the worry grow and grow, because it feels wrong, feels out of place.

He needs to find Papyrus.

A strangled noise reaches him— it sounds almost like a cry, and Sans pivots towards it, flows into a run.

_Papyrus—_

He breaks through a bush, stumbles his way into a clearing— tall trees surrounds it, and it’s a well-hidden little spot.

And in the middle, held down by vines, is Papyrus.

“pap!”

He starts forward, nearly slipping in his hurry— magic prickles at his senses, and there’s an odd, sickly, smell in the air.

“pap, wha—”

His voice trails off; his face burns.

Papyrus is eagle-spread: vines hold his legs apart, and Sans can see the wet, slick, opening in between Papyrus’ legs. Can see the cum and the juice dripping out of him.

“S-SANS—” Papyrus groans, fingers digging into the snow. He thrusts his hips upward, the motion wild and uncoordinated. “I— I NEED—”

Sans swallows.

Papyrus voice is needy, shaky, and it makes a part of Sans tighten— makes his soul thrum.

“i— i’ll get you out,” he says, forces his voice steady, and beelines directly for Papyrus’ side.

He ignores the way he can smell _Papyrus_.

He kneels down beside him, reaches out— his finger barely brushes Papyrus’ wrist, before Papyrus bucks into the touch, moaning loudly.

“I— PLEASE, _PLEASE_ , SANS, I NEED—”

He pants, twists; his hips jerks, and Sans’ mouth is dry.

“pap, what—”

“PLEASE,” Papyrus cries, shouts, and for the first time, Sans looks at his brother’s face.

He’s crying.

Sobbing, even, and drool is sliding down his chin, face, and he’s so flushed there’s barely an inch of white bone left.

“PLEASE,” Papyrus sobs, shaking with the force of it. “I NEED, I NEED—”

Papyrus voice slips into a whine, low and drawn-out, and Sans’ hands are shaking.

“i— pap, i can’t—”

Papyrus cries harder. Heaves. “SANS, PLEASE— F-F-FUCK ME.”

Sans’ magic coils, seeps downwards, and he hates the hitch in his breath.

“i— i can’t, paps, i—”

Papyrus weeps. It’s the only way to put it; to describe the sound that Papyrus makes, that shakes out of him.

Sans never wants to hear that again.

“okay, okay—” he hurries out, because his soul is breaking in two. He pushes his coat off, throws it aside. Hesitates, his hands on the waistband of his short.

“are—” he swallows. Can’t look at Papyrus. “are you sure?”

Papyrus sobs. “PL-PLEASE—”

Sans grits his teeth, and pushes his shorts off.

He climbs out of them, swings himself on top of Papyrus— his brother spasms at the touch, and Sans panics; strokes his fingers over Papyrus’ ribs, hushes him frantically.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry—”

He shifts downwards, slipping over sweat-covered bones; he’s painfully aware of the fact that he’s already hard, and shame burns at his cheeks.

He straddles Papyrus, strokes the inside of his femurs— Papyrus bucks, tosses his head back.

“G-GOD, PLEASE, _PLEASE_ —”

Sans doesn’t know what to do— it’s awkward, and his soul is hammering, and sweat is sliding down his spine, and all he can look at is Papyrus, wet and slick and dripping all over.

He swallows.

Slowly, he moves one hand off a femur— holds it close to Papyrus’ opening, and it’s warm, so very warm; tentatively, he presses one finger against it.

Papyrus moans.

Sans’ souls twists, and his breath hitches. He—

He slides in another finger, jerks them in— it’s wet and tight, and Papyrus is gasping out pretty, little sounds.

“PL-PLEASE!” Papyrus begs, voice breaking, and Sans bends.

He slips out both fingers, slides himself into position. His magic has already formed the necessary equipment, and if he thinks of it like this, he can bear it.

He’s— he’s doing his bro a favour. A— A—

Sans bites his teeth together, and thrusts inside.

“ah—” he breathes out, can’t help it, because god, Papyrus is _so wet_.

Papyrus moans, gasps, and immediately thrusts downwards.

Sans chokes, bucks— it’s so _tight_ , so warm and wet and oh god, the walls are pulsing around him, rubbing, clenching, and he’s shaking so bad already.

Papyrus is thrusting wildly, grinding, and Sans can’t think— his mind spins, blanketed by a wash of pure pleasure, and all he’s aware of is how fucking wet Papyrus is, and how _good it feels._

“FL-FLOWEY—”

Papyrus’ voice. Strung high, breathy.

“PL-PLEASE, PLEASE, I NEED—”

Sans is, suddenly, right back in reality.

Papyrus is tossing, sobbing, and Sans swallows.

This isn’t about _them_ — this isn’t, isn’t anything.

Shame wells in his mouth like puke, and shakily, Sans grips Papyrus by the iliac crests, and starts thrusting.

Papyrus howls, and Sans picks up the pace— thrusting, ramming into his brother, and his sockets are stinging, his breath is tight, and he’s shaking, shuddering.

Papyrus is moaning.

“PLEASE—” Papyrus gasps, arching. “M-MORE—!”

Sans reaches one hand out, curls it around Papyrus’ spine, and starts stroking. Thumbs over the bones, and Papyrus voice breaks, pitches into a breathless, long, moan.

Papyrus shudders— his walls clenches around Sans; his body jerks, then goes still.

Sans recognizes an orgams when he feels one.

For a second, he considers continuing thrusting— he’s throbbing, wet, and right now, all he wants to do is fuck Papyrus senseless.

But the shame is there, the guilt, and he _can’t_.

He pulls out; can’t help but stroke himself, just a few times, to feel the cool touch of his hand against himself.

Papyrus gasps.

Sans lets go— stands up, summons forth his magic; it’s shaky and barely follows his leads, but it’ll do.

White, sharp bones cuts through the vines, frees Papyrus arms and legs— Sans ignores the urge to hold his brother close, and picks up his shorts. Slides them on.

He’s going to leave a wet patch, but really, he doesn’t care.

“S-S-SANS?”

Sans pivots, hurries to his brother— Papyrus is blinking up at him, tears still running down his face, and he’s panting confusedly.

“WHAT—?”

Sans hushes him. Sits down, and carefully touches a hand to Papyrus— his brother flinches, whines, and Sans’ soul hurt.

“WHERE— FLOWEY?”

“it’s okay bro,” Sans says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “it’s, it’s okay.”

Papyrus looks at him.

His eyes are wide and shiny, and he’s shaking, shuddering— small sobs leaves him.

“I DON’T— I DON’T UNDERSTAND.”

Papyrus draws his legs together; pushes himself up, except his arms are shaking too hard, and gives out under him.

He whines. “I— IT HURTS.”

The tears pick up.

“S-SANS. IT HURTS.”

Papyrus curls his arms around himself, presses himself further down into the snow. He’s sobbing openly now, shaking with each breath.

“OH GOD IT _HURTS_.”

  



End file.
